


Hilt II: Double-Edged Blade

by chains_archivist



Series: Hilt by Nonie Rider [2]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Boys in Chains, M/M, Prison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-15 14:01:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3449774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chains_archivist/pseuds/chains_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>by Nonie Rider<br/>Krycek ambushes Mulder in his apartment to avenge the knifework in "To the Hilt." But some knives have two edge</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hilt II: Double-Edged Blade

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Dusk, the archivist: this work was originally archived at [Boys in Chains](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Boys_in_Chains), which opened in 2000 as a multifandom archive for both fiction and art, but then sadly went offline in 2005. To bring the archive back, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in December 2014. Open Doors [posted an announcement](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/1832) and e-mailed all creators about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please [contact the Open Doors committee](http://transformativeworks.org/contact/open%20doors).

Krycek watched from cover as Mulder picked up the unmarked envelope from the floor, tossed his jacket over the nearest chair, and dropped onto the couch. Those long, clever fingers tore the envelope open--clearly, he had no expectation of useful fingerprints--and withdrew the credit receipt. Krycek could almost see his eyes move from line to line: a Visa statement from last week. Sandoro's Body Art. One gold ring, engraved, with piercing included. And Mulder's name and card number, and a good facsimile of his signature if Krycek did say so himself. 

He saw Mulder's face suddenly tighten in realization, and as the FBI agent reached for his holster, Krycek stepped fully into sight. 

"Hello, Mulder." Krycek smiled, holding his face and his automatic steady under Mulder's gaze. "So nice to see you again." 

"Asshole," said Mulder. 

"And you should know, eh? Come on, Foxfire, hand off the gun. Freud would be ashamed of you." 

Mulder just smiled. "I see those cuts have almost healed up. Back for some more?" 

Krycek let his smile go taut. "I don't think so, Mulder." Moving in, he towered over the seated agent and let his gun rest against Mulder's forehead. "You son of a bitch, you raped me. You raped me with the hilt of my own fucking knife." 

"Come on, Ratboy, this is Washington. I can neither confirm nor deny having inappropriate sexual contact on the date in question, yadda yadda. But if you think that was rape--" 

"What the hell would you call it?" 

"The answer to your prayers, apparently." Mulder continued to lounge, as if there was only polite conversation between them and not a gun to his head. 

"You motherfucker!" 

"Why, Krycek, I'm offended. I might almost think you didn't like me." 

"Gavno'-- Ebitskaya sila!" Krycek nearly tore a ligament trying to keep his finger from tightening on the trigger. 

"What's the matter, Krycek, bear got your tongue?" 

Krycek grasped for the shattered remains of his English. "I am going to kill you!" 

Mulder's smile grew broader. "Bullshit." 

Furious, Krycek realized he was gaping. Didn't this idiot realize-- 

And then Mulder's long fingers came up to close firmly around his wrist. "You're not going to kill me because you're fucking stupid and you want me." 

"What--" But despite himself, Krycek found his arm moved lightly aside, and somehow he couldn't prevent Mulder from taking the gun from his strengthless fingers. 

"I'm no rapist, Krycek. Last week, I was only going to threaten you with the knife, see whether I could finally get you to tell the truth. But no, you got hard just from being manhandled. 

"Is it me, Ratboy, or do you stretch your shorts every time somebody hits you?" 

"You motherfucker!" Rage hurled him at his smiling tormentor at last, but Mulder blocked him easily and slammed him back into the wall with a forearm against his throat. 

But Mulder's voice was still casually amused. "You wanted me. You wanted me to hurt you. You wanted me to make you come. Shit, Krycek, all you had to do was wilt and I'd have stopped. *I'm* not desperate enough to grope boys on the street. 

"So if it helps to tell yourself that was rape, fine. Be my guest. But don't forget; I'm not the one who made it a sexual act. And I'm not the one who came." 

"You--" //No, swearing doesn't help. If you're going to keep any control here, you've got to hit him where it hurts.// 

"Mulder, listen to yourself, you fucking son of a bitch! You're the one who studied psych. Can you really say '*You made me do it. It wasn't really rape because you enjoyed it*' and not hear the voice of every fucking abuser you ever studied?" 

"And you deserve better, Krycek?" 

//NO.// "I--" 

"You know, Krycek, I always liked you. Until you betrayed me, and sold Scully, and shot my father. I liked you, but I would never have thought of doing anything about it. But now that I hate you--" 

His breath caught suddenly, and Mulder smiled. 

"Oh, yes. Now that I hate you, you've done everything but rub yourself against my gun and yowl. Well, I finally got the idea, cocksucker. I hope you're happy. You *look* happy. And I'm going to make you even happier." 

That smile grew darker and more cruel. "I'm going to hit you now, Alex. And you're going to let me." 

And there was no air, he couldn't make himself breathe as Mulder clicked the safety on with one hand and drew the cold barrel lightly down Krycek's cheek 

In sudden panic, he tried to claw his way free, but Mulder loosed his throat only to grip his wrist and pin it to the wall above him. And the long, trim body leaned in, heat against heat, trapping the prosthetic between them. 

"All you have to do is ask me to stop, Alex," Mulder's voice was ruthlessly intimate, and Krycek was still trying to find the words when the gun hand lashed in. Dizziness blinded him as his head slammed back into the wall, jaw numb and aching with the kiss of cold steel. Heat tickled his neck, and he realized the skin had split under the blow. 

And he was hard, so hard, and he wanted to die-- 

"Is that what you wanted, Alex?" The smile was razored, the voice almost gentle. 

He fought to stay on his feet and not slide down the wall in utter surrender. 

"Answer me, Alex." Soft words, but the muzzle that came up under his jaw was cold and hard. "Do you want me to stop?" The intruding metal pressed up and in, half choking him, but it was the quiet voice that he could not bear. 

Then the gun was gone from his aching throat. "I'm going to hit you again, Alex. Because you're going to let me, and because I want to. And maybe I want to hit you until you're dead." 

And he wanted to cry out, wanted to protest or submit or beg for a bullet, but he choked on tears, and then there was lightning and darkness and something had driven his head sideways against the wall and his ear wasn't working right. 

"Do you want me to stop, Alex? I'll stop if you ask me to." 

Something was wrong, he realized with sudden clarity, something terrible was happening and he had to stop it. But it wasn't the pain, though he felt the gunsight tear his cheek to the bone as the next blow fell. 

Oh God, it hurt, something hurt inside and it was wrong and he had to stop it, had to fight against the aching surrender that tried to pull him down. He had to find words and drag them out of the well of blood and pain that was his heart. God-- 

"Do you want me to stop, Alex?" 

Another shock and numbness, and the wrong was getting worse. He had to do something-- 

"Do you want me to stop?" 

Only the greatest need could make him speak. "Sst--" His mouth didn't seem to be working right, and for a moment he was afraid he had not been heard. 

"Alex?" 

"Sst--opph," he forced the word out, and oh thank God the world held still for a moment while he tried to pull his mind together. 

"Do you really want me to, Alex?" said the soft dark voice, and suddenly something hard and cold stroked him there and God he was so hard but that didn't matter, and the pain didn't matter, if he could only-- 

"Mhldrr--" he managed through lips that felt too thick and sticky to speak. 

He heard nothing over the roaring in his ears, the crashing echo of his own breathing. Was he alone? 

Need drove his eyes open, though they didn't want to move, and he saw with relief that Mulder was still there. "Le'h go," he said, and felt the grip on his wrist loosen and fall away. 

But the voice was still cruel. "Well, Alex, I guess you don't want me so much after all." 

"Nn--" God, how could he find the words to stop this horror? Helplessly, he reached out half blind and caught Mulder's wrist in turn. "Hi'h me if y' wann--" he drew the hand back and brought it sharply against his own cheek in illustration. "B-buh no gun, no' with y'r gun--" 

"Not with my gun?" Mulder sounded incredulous. 

Thank God, the man was listening. "Hann-zz. Hi'h me with y'r hanns. If y' wann. Buh, buh I wann y' t' feel." 

"What?" 

"I wann... I wann you to feel me when you hi'h me. This, this's wrong, wha' you're doing." 

"Wrong!" Mulder's voice was scornful. "You fucking traitor, you murderer, you're telling me what's wrong!" 

Oh God how could he find the words with his head like this? "'S wrong f'r YOU, Mhldrr. You don' wann do this." 

Mulder laughed sharply, and he knew he hadn't understood. Desperately, he caught Mulder's hand against his cheek and held it there, ignoring the ache of battered flesh. The hand was warm. 

"Mhldrr, you're hi'h--hih'ing me with your gun becau' you don' dare toush me. You wann to toush me, so you hi'h me. An I leh you, becau' I wann you to toush me. Buh--buh you hur' yourselh, you don' geh wha' you nee' when you hi'h me with a gun. You nee', I nee' you, to feel me." 

And he could find no more words, so he moved their joined hands along his cheek and brushed the taut palm with his lips, offering even the blood from his mouth to him. His heart knew the words in the language of his childhood: //Oh, Mulder, can't you see it's wrong to starve yourself, cut yourself off from touching? These bruises don't matter, but you must not hurt your hands with emptiness. Hit me if you want to, kill me if you need to, but let yourself feel it as you do.// 

The hand in his jerked and tried to pull away, but he held it tightly to his lips and drew it upward to feed it his tears. Warm against warm, life to life, he held it, and then knowing he was now the stronger one he slid their joined hands down to spread Mulder's fingers on his aching throat. 

//My pulse is yours, my life. Feel it. I'm not afraid of death at your hands, Mulder. I'm afraid of how deeply you cut yourself when you cut me with cold steel between us. Feel me, and let go of the double-edged blade that hurts us both. Let go and feel.// 

And then the hand on his throat moved inexorably away and he was terribly afraid, but those fingers drew his in turn to rest against a cheek as warm and wet as his own. And everything was going to be all right. 

The end, for now


End file.
